


Wee Bit Pissed

by Goldy



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:10:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1952736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldy/pseuds/Goldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m rubbish at weddings. Especially my own.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wee Bit Pissed

They were a wee bit pissed.

That would explain a number of things. Like why the Doctor had her pushed up against one side of the TARDIS, his tongue licking at a point between her throat and shoulder. It would also explain why she had one hand in his hair, and why she was panting loud enough that some poor fish-headed-alien passerby was likely to mistake her for an assault victim.

He was even _muttering_ against her skin. “Tastes a bit like H20 and sodium chloride with a hint of iron… and whatever it was we had for dinner.”

Instead of pointing out that he was, quite clearly, completely nutters (what would be the point?), she sucked in a breath and managed, “Meatballs. Least, that’s what you said. They _were_ meatballs, weren’t they?”

“Oh, maybe,” he said and then his tongue moved up her neck to just underneath her ear.

She bit down on her lip and squeaked, “Doctor—”

He pulled away and she had to fight down a pout. He smacked his lips together and then _looked_ at her in that inquisitive way he sometimes did. She looked back.

“I think…” he began.

Rose pressed her lips together and forced down on a sigh. Honestly, she’d gone and gotten him completely sloshed and he _still_ couldn’t shut up for five minutes to snog her good and properly against the TARDIS.

“Given that I _did_ comb my hair—oh, about two hours ago now, I suppose—and you put on that lovely white dress—”

She put one finger on his lips to shush him and then paused. “You noticed my dress?”

He tried to look innocent, but it was ruined somewhat by the smug glint in his eyes.

“It’s a lovely dress,” he informed her.

She pulled her hand back, but before she could respond, he continued.

“ _Anyway_ , I know this man—religious fellow, called a priest on this planet, but not like what you humans are used to… more like a priest of the earth, of the stars, that sort of thing. He’s an old acquaintance from a while back. Owes me a favour. Saved his wife’s life.”

He looked at her for some sort of reaction.

“Hmmm,” she said, quite seriously, and tried hard to urge his lips back towards her neck.

He braced one hand on the TARDIS behind her and met her eyes. “We could drop in and pay him a visit.”

She stared at him. He didn’t look like he was joking.

“ _Now_?” she said. “But Doctor, I thought we were…”

“So we could… get married,” he interrupted.

She released a noise that might have been a gasp, but it sounded more like a hiccup. “What?” she croaked.

He _had_ to be joking. This _was_ the Doctor. This was the man who jumped out of his skin at the mere mention of the word “mortgage.” To propose _marriage_ … well, obviously, he was very, very drunk.

“Yeah,” he said, grin wide enough to split his face in two. “Talked about it yesterday, don’t you remember? _Well_ , when I say talked about it—it was more… implied. Most definitely. Quite possibly, in fact. By certain… promises.”

 _Yesterday_. She tried to remember. Hard, that—too much alcohol, loads of kissing—and, anyway, what was the point of keeping track of time on the TARDIS? They were always popping back and forth all over the universe.

They’d gone to that beautiful planet in the next quadrant, the one with rocks and the flying— _oh_ , that was right. _Forever_ , that’s what it was. Come to think of it, that _did_ sound a little like a marriage, didn’t it?

His grin slipped at her silence and he pulled away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He toed at the ground, expression akin to a puppy dog whose dinner had just been cruelly snatched away.

“That’s—that’s fine,” he said. “Just forget it. Never said anything. Should really think before running that mouth of mine, eh? Never know what’ll come out. Takes even me by surprise half the time.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Doctor, I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

His head jerked up hopefully. “Yeah?”

She giggled. “Yeah.”

It was suddenly so _funny_. Here he was, the last Time Lord in the universe, tripping over himself in an attempt to get out a proposal. As if she would say anything other than “yes.” She’d just… never expected he would ask.

He grinned at her laughter and then grabbed her hand.

They ran.

**

Priest Cullen had the head of a trout. He had a small, pudgy body with humanoid limbs, and giant gills on his neck that Rose made a polite effort not to stare at.

After giving the Doctor a delighted hug, he eagerly consented to marry them. The ritual would be over quickly, he said. He’d just call his wife down to act as witness—a few words would be exchanged. And then they’d be married. Well, according to this planet, anyway. Rose doubted it would have any bearing at all in the rest of the world.

But first the Doctor just had to let Priest Cullen show off his updated book collection (and it was a very _large_ library). And _then_ the Doctor had to deal with an infestation of seaweed that was eating through the living room floors. And _of course_ it was absolutely integral that he help cure the Cullen’s entire nursery from a small bug they’d been infected with.

As the time wore on, Rose found it steadily less amusing. Oh, _sure_ , it had sounded like a good idea at first—run off to a monastery, get married, scare Jackie half to death the next morning.

She didn't see why he had to go and panic about it when he was the one who brought it up in the first place. Far as she was concerned, so long as he understood he couldn't go and toss her from the TARDIS on a whim, she didn't need it formalized.

Besides, she was dizzy and tired and the seaweed in the living room made her nose run.

Which was, of course, when something in her stomach gave out and she threw up the entire contents of her stomach all over the Doctor's feet.

Priest Cullen's gills flapped in distaste and he responded by throwing them out.

**

The Doctor carried Rose back to his TARDIS, not so much as a happy wife-to-be, but as a pale and shivering girl, her accusing eyes making him feel about as useful as a splinter in her heel.

Certainly, he _had_ fixed up the Cullen home. He’d cured their three hundred eggs from a mild virus with only a few flicks of the sonic screwdriver.

But he’d failed Rose. He could save entire planets—universes—multi-universes—and he didn’t think any of it could make up for failing Rose.

He’d almost forgotten what too much alcohol could do to the human body. He _felt_ the effects, of course, but it didn’t _really_ impact him, not like it would Rose.

He chanced a glance down at her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for not being able to follow through on his marriage proposal (he _had_ wanted to—oh, he had, but there had just been… _things_ ) or for her sickness.

She shook her head and then wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder.

She didn’t tell him it was okay, but he knew she wasn’t angry with him. Somehow, that made it all worse.

“Rose—”

“Shh,” she said. “I just… I want to go to bed, Doctor. That’s all I want. I’m so tired.”

“Yeah,” he managed. “Almost there.”

Her voice was faint. “Thank you.”

**

Rose cleaned up and he chucked that particular pair of Converse sneakers into the rubbish bin. Then he threw himself down on Rose’s bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for her to come out of the washroom.

She emerged a few moments later, scrubbed clean and in a fresh pair of pajamas. Without speaking, she cuddled up to him, head pillowed on his arm.

“We could try again,” he said softly.

She turned her chin up to stare at him. For one horrible moment, he thought she’d say “no” but then she smiled.

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah.”

Suddenly, he felt loads better. He rolled onto his side and stared at her. She gave him _that_ look—the one that always made him feel stupid inside. Nine-hundred-and-fifty-years-old, and Rose Tyler could reduce him to nothing with a single _look_.

“Not the first priest I’ve helped, you know,” he said. “Know loads more. Could get married on any planet on this universe. All of them, if you wanted.”

“That’d be nice,” Rose said, yawning. “But you know, Doctor… I don’t _need_ all that. If I wanted a normal life—I would’ve stayed with Mickey, yeah?”

She closed her eyes, curling into his side, apparently quite content for the moment.

He was usually irritated by Rose’s need to sleep. He always had all these things he had to say, and when she was asleep, she was completely unhelpful.

But now he welcomed the time to think. What _was_ he doing? He only had sixty more years with her—at best. Oh, he could ask her if she’d be willing to extend that life. There were ways, of course—future technologies and products not yet available to her time period. He could extend her lifespan for a hundred years, two hundred—almost as many as he wanted.

He could keep Rose Tyler by his side for a long time. More, he _wanted_ to. Perhaps more than he should. Already, he knew, if he lost her…

Rose curled one leg through his, nose pressing against his neck. A soft snore rumbled through her body. He absently brushed a piece of hair out of her face.

Best to make the most of it, then. That’s what he’d do. Tomorrow—right before they stopped in at the Powell Estates. After all, it was like he said. He knew a place on practically every planet.  



End file.
